"I already am," she whispered back. "Thanks.”
Harmon asked if she'd like someone to see her and the boys back to the hotel.
Bonnie shook her head.
He knelt and held Will and Andy by the shoulder. "When you're full grown, come find me," he said. "I'd be honored to have you ride with the Rangers.”
Will straightened with pride. Andy leaned against her skirts, looking tired.
Harmon asked again if she wanted someone to walk her back to the hotel.
Bonnie looked around at the faces of the Rangers and saw it then. The look men had always given her. That invisible look that told her she was a woman to be polite to but never to flatter or flirt with or even talk to more than necessary.
"No. thank you. Captain. I'll be fine." She took the boys' hands. "I've got these two to watch over me."
He saw her out the door and as far as the lights of the hotel before he turned back to go to work on all he'd learned.
Bonnie walked, her head high, knowing somewhere in the night was a man who'd wanted her, who'd loved her, who'd thought of her as beautiful.
She touched the ring, knowing he'd always be with her. Her father often said she was a woman meant to be useful, but for one night she'd been cherished. She'd been a woman to be loved.
CHAPTER 19
DRUMMOND ROAK FOUND A MAN'S BODY LYING beside a cold campfire just before sundown. He'd seen a buzzard circling up ahead and feared he'd find Sage dead. He'd been trailing the gang for days, watching for every sign.
Sage's small footprint had given him hope. She was with them, surviving.
He grinned. Knowing her, she was torturing the men as much as possible.
When he'd found the campsite, he wanted to rush in, but he took his time moving up. He stared down at the body of the outlaw. The man of about forty had been shot in the head, but judging from the look of him, it couldn't have been more than eight, maybe ten hours since he'd died. If he'd spent a night out here, animals would have already begun to pull him apart. As it was, only one lone buzzard had dinner plans.
Drum tugged a paper from his hand and read it. A deed, made out to Solomon and Bradford Summerfield, for a piece of land back two days' ride in the direction of Galveston. If this man had died because of this paper, he'd been the only one who thought it valuable.
Drum tucked it in his saddlebag; figuring one of the names on the deed was probably staring at him right now with dead eyes.
He studied the rest of the camp, reading it easily, thanks to the damp earth. Five men rode out. Spotting Sage's shoe print, he let out a long breath. She was still with them, still alive.
Kneeling, he picked up a slice of her handkerchief spotted with blood, and he swore. All five men who rode out with Sage would be dead soon. He'd see to it.
He turned to the mouth of a canyon called Skull Alley. Every outlaw in the state had heard of the place. It had been around for ten, maybe fifteen years. Only the lowest of the low lived there, men so worthless any organized gang wouldn't bother with them. Somewhere inside Skull Alley lay the rough makings of a town that was run by an insane Englishman who thought of himself as royalty. The only reason the army or the Rangers hadn't gone in to clean it out years ago was that the opening was a natural protection better than any fort.
Drum folded the lace handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. He'd been a boy when his mother brought him here for one winter. She'd heard the whoring was good, and he guessed it had been. She'd stayed busy most of the time, and he'd roamed the land. He'd found a way out without going through the passage that was guarded by three layers of riflemen. The count's orders to the guards were simple: shoot anyone they didn't recognize on sight, and question the rest.
Drum figured he could bribe his way through the first guard, maybe even the second, but the third line of defense was said to be men who had been with the count for years. Their families lived in the camp, and the men knew their wives and children would be killed if the wrong man managed to get through.
Pacing, he weighed his options. If he went straight in, he'd be spotted, questioned, and probably shot. If he tried to find the path he'd used to climb out unnoticed years ago, they'd know he was sneaking in and shoot him on sight. He'd been a kid then, half the size he was now. It wouldn't be easy slipping past the guards and, if he didn't make it, they wouldn't bother asking questions. Either way, he'd be of no use to Sage.
Knowing it was too late today for either action, Drum spent the rest of the daylight burying the stranger. He tied his horse in the trees a few hundred yards from the entrance to the canyon and tried to get some sleep. He felt like he hadn't slept in days, but tonight, knowing that he was close, helped him to rest easy.
Late into the night he woke to the even sound of a low growl. Drum didn't move. The sound came again. He rolled onto his side and cocked his gun as he searched the darkness with eyes honed to the night.
The low sound came again, more like a snore than a growl. Could a wild animal be sleeping three feet away? Maybe the animal didn't notice him and bedded down in the trees as he had. No, that would be impossible, and what was even more impossible was the possibility that Drum hadn't heard anything.
His eyes adjusted enough for him to see the long form wrapped in a blanket about five feet away. The snore came again, muffled by a tan hat. Drum thought of shooting whoever it was just to teach the fellow a lesson. Then he noticed the spotted pony staked out not far from Satan.
"Daniel Torry," Drum bellowed. "What in the hell are you doing here?"
The young Ranger woke and stretched. "I figured if I bedded down close, you'd notice me before leaving in the morning.” "How'd you find me?"
"You were so busy following the outlaw trail, a duck could have tagged along behind you. Only problem I had was trying to stay awake to keep up. Didn't anyone ever tell you a man has to sleep now and then? If you hadn't stopped tonight, I would have fallen out of my saddle, and I doubt hitting the ground would have woke me”
"You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"
Daniel stretched and lay back down. "I thought I'd help. I didn't want to say anything back at the station, but like you, I've been to Skull Alley and lived to tell about it."
"You have?"
"My dad used to run a liquor wagon in there every month. They probably could have made their own rotgut, but the count wanted the good stuff. Soon as I was big enough to look like a man riding shotgun, my pa would take me along.”
"I heard no one comes out." Drum believed Daniel, but he still asked. "I thought you said your pa was a preacher?"
"My pa would drive the whiskey wagon and preach to me at the same time." He laughed. "Too bad I took to the drink and not the preaching.”
Roak leaned back, knowing Daniel would get around to telling him the facts directly.
"From what I remember," Daniel said, "only two groups do manage to ride out. My pa, who brings whiskey, and the last few years the count lets a group of gamblers ride in about the same time.”
"I figure Shelley Lander must have been one of them at some point. They come in, hold a big poker tournament while the liquor is running, let one of the men from the camp take the main prize, and fleece the others. My pa said that way the count makes sure his men don't squirrel up enough money to leave. I figured the gamblers gave the count a cut, so I put the facts together and decided that maybe that's why the men came after Shelley. Maybe he left without donating his share to the boss, so the count sent his men to take it. They left him alive so they could drop by and visit him regular."
"Your pa still making the runs?"
"Far as I know. We had a fight a few years back, and I left home, if you can call the back room of a saloon home. Haven't seen him since. He'd be real unhappy to know I became a Ranger. If he's still delivering, he should be here in a day or two. It's getting close to the end of the month."